


Under the Rain

by dinolaur



Series: 100 Bucky Feels to Counter 100 Tony Kills [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:52:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinolaur/pseuds/dinolaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And they dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Rain

It’s an ugly day. A grey skies, air suffocatingly heavy with humidity kind of day. It’s going to rain. Bucky would rather it not. He’s sick of trying to keep mud off his boots. They’re in London between missions. Usually Bucky’s pretty antsy on these shore leaves. He’s not really a sitting on his thumb kind of guy. He needs action, movement of some kind. Steve, on the other hand, loves shore leave.

He makes some excuse about seeing how the production of the newest grenades is coming along, heading off to the workshop with an honest to God skip in his step. Bucky exchanges an amused grin with Peggy. Steve thinks he’s subtle, but his affection for Stark is about as discrete as a runaway locomotive.

Stark isn’t much better, and sometimes, Bucky really worries that the wrong people are going to take notice and make life hell for his friends.

“Brooding again,” Peggy says more than asks.

“It’s a good day for it,” he answers.

“If you go by that logic, you’ll be brooding an awful lot in London,” she says. Thunder claps loudly, followed seconds later by heavy sheets of rain hitting the roof. “I will give you this, London rain is dirty and musty. But rain in the countryside, it’s fresh and clean and wonderful.”

Really, that might be the most sentimental thing Bucky’s ever heard her say. “You go to the country a bunch,” he asks. She’s always so serious. It’s nice seeing that look on her pretty face.

“My grandfather, God rest him, had a cottage north of here,” she says fondly.

Bucky arches a brow. “Ain’t just about everything in England north of London?”

The nostalgia fades to be replaced by her usual dry expression. “Your cheek isn’t nearly as charming as you imagine it is,” she says.

“Naw, it’s pulled in a dame or two,” he says with a crooked grin. She never falls for that grin. She’s too good for it. “So this cottage, that have a picket fence and everything?”

“No fence,” she says. “Everything was green and open.”

“That’s something,” he says. He went to Camp Leigh for training, and that’s about as green as he’s ever seen. Europe is black and crumbling.

She tucks a thick curl behind her ear. “We had sheep, but no fences because the herding dog was so marvelous. She was the shaggiest thing you’ve ever seen, and her name was Mildred.”

Bucky snorts, and when she turns a frown to him, he says, “Sorry, but that’s—I live in the city where there’s no room for them, and even I know that’s an awful name for a dog.”

Peggy tries to look stern, but she cracks after only a moment. “It was rather awful,” she admits. “We teased Poppy of it so much—don’t you even start,” she adds with a warning. Bucky shuts his mouth but doesn’t stop grinning.

She makes a face at him like she just doesn’t trust him a bit, which almost makes him laugh, before turning a more whimsical expression towards the window and watching the water trailing down the glass. “I miss it,” she says. “It was so simple there, so open and free. We had so much room to run and play and dance, rain or shine or snow.”

Childhood wasn’t simple for him. His family had no money, and there were plenty of days during the Depression that he didn’t eat. The streets weren’t always safe, and he had Steve to worry about. The Army really was Bucky’s only shot at getting much of anything done with his life.

He stands up, grabbing Peggy’s hand and pulling her up. He drags her towards the door, and she asks, “What are you— _Bucky!”_

Bucky runs them right out into the middle of the downpour. Peggy’s got her hand up over her hair, trying valiantly to shield it from damage. She’s glaring, and her makeup is running. She’s still as beautiful as she was that day she walked into the tavern, decked to the nines and so stunning she brought place to a screeching halt.

“I’ve never danced in the rain,” he says, swiping his hair back from his eyes. His hand is still holding hers.

She regards him for a moment. Then, she lowers her arm and says, “I was going to wait until after the war, but I think we can make an exception.”

They spin and slip and splash, and he catches her in his arms, and her head rests on his shoulder as the rain falls all around them.


End file.
